Cold Death Mary Stone (most read books TXT) 📖

new to the area and on the hunt for a good salon. I’m sure you know how stressful that can be.” Ellie fanned herself with one hand, and after a lingering glance at the Rolex, the receptionist’s expression turned sympathetic.

“Oh, I do. Isn’t that the worst, trying to figure out who you can trust with something as important as your hair?”

“Right? Hair is so important. I thought I’d have more time to search, only someone sprang a surprise engagement on me tonight, and I need to look my best.”

The receptionist nodded. “Trust me, I completely understand. Hang on, let me check and see what I can do.” She tapped at a few keys and beamed. “It looks like you’re in luck. We’re usually booked weeks, sometimes months out, but we happen to have a brand-new stylist with an opening. Would that work for you?”

“Oh, that’s fantabulous, thank you.” Ellie cringed inside. Fantabulous? She didn’t think she’d ever said that word in her entire life. Even Helen Kline wouldn’t be caught dead forming the word. “I only need a wash and a trim, so that should work out fine.”

“Perfect. Go ahead and take a seat, and I’ll let her know you’re here.”

Ellie settled on one of the two fancy loveseats crafted from red cushions and gold metalwork and inspected the salon during the wait. Glossy black workstations stretched toward the back wall, each dominated by a massive gilt mirror. A stylist swept hair clippings from a cream-and-black floor that appeared to be genuine marble, or at the very least, a damned good imitation.

If Letitia Wiggins didn’t frequent this salon, Ellie bet she was a client at one every bit as lavish. This place even smelled good thanks to the lit candles scattered all around. Like peaches and cream instead of the typical color solution and hairspray.

“Ellie? Hi, I’m Holly, and I’ll be your stylist today. I can take you back now.”

The woman who bounded up to Ellie appeared younger than the rest of the hairdressers, somewhere closer to Ellie’s own age. Her short hair was dyed black and razored into multiple layers around a heart-shaped face. Holly led her to an empty chair closest to the back wall, chatting the entire time as she draped Ellie in a black gown.

Ellie laughed and replied and nudged her to keep talking. The more loose-lipped her stylist, the better.

Once they both faced the mirror, Holly fingered one of Ellie’s waves. “So, what are we doing today? Your hair is so pretty.”

“Just a wash and a trim.”

The stylist pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, thank goodness. I was half-afraid you wanted me to cut it all off.”

Ellie reached for her hair, flinching. “No, no, just a trim. An inch at most.” Not that she believed hair was as life-and-death as the receptionist seemed to, but still. Ponytails and braids were simple and quick and suited her busy lifestyle. Short hair required too much work. Plus, okay, she admitted that maybe she was just the tiniest bit vain about her long curls.

The stylist washed Ellie’s hair with a delicious mint-scented shampoo and chattered away about her boyfriend and his new job and the weather. Ellie coaxed her along every once in a while, peppering in questions about how Holly enjoyed working at Chez La La so far and if the clients were nice.

After that last question, Holly paused her snipping. “A lot of them are really great. I love my little old ladies who come in and tell me all about their grandbabies and dogs. Of course, there are always a few who can be a little…demanding.”

She brushed out a new section of Ellie’s hair and clipped off the ends while little red pieces fell to the floor. “I understand completely. Actually,” Ellie lowered her voice, like she was sharing a secret, “my aunt can be a little like that sometimes. She sprang a last-minute dinner party on me for tonight, and I didn’t dare show up with split ends, or I would have never heard the end of it. She’s the one who told me about this place.”

Holly made a sympathetic hum. “Oh boy, do I know the type. Who’s your aunt?”

Ellie waited until the stylist met her gaze in the mirror. “Letitia Wiggins.”

Holly winced, and her mouth formed a circle. “Oh.” She ducked her head and busied herself lining up a new section of Ellie’s hair.

“I’m guessing from that reaction that you know her. Come on, you can tell me. She’s my aunt, remember? I know she’s a pill, so it’s not like you’d be sharing something new.”

The stylist bit her lip and checked the workstation closest to them, but her coworker was busy chatting away with a white-haired elderly woman. Still, Holly scooted closer and lowered her voice. “Everyone knows Letitia. She comes in every four weeks to get a root touchup and make sure her style stays perfect.”

Ellie rolled her eyes in the mirror. “Yup, that sounds like Aunt Letitia. She can be a lot. So demanding. Don’t tell her I said this, but I feel sorry for her poor stylist.”

Holly snipped away. “Me too. I guess she always stares at her hair in the mirror for like five minutes after Bev finishes. She twists every which way and frowns, like she’s never quite satisfied with how it turned out. She even points out spots that Bev needs to touch up.”

“Oof. Though, I’m not surprised. I remember when I was younger, she used to make her housekeeper cry. She can be pretty terrifying.” Ellie clapped a hand over her mouth. “Please tell me she’s not due in today. I’d die if she marched over and started bossing us around. She always has very particular ideas about what I should do with my hair.”

Holly’s eyes rounded. “Oh, Lordy, I hope not. What day of the week is it again?”

“Wednesday.”

The stylist heaved out a breath. “You’re so lucky. You missed her by one day. She always comes the third Thursday of the month.